


Arsonist's Lullaby

by PurgatoryJar



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Episode: s09e06 Heaven Can't Wait, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Season/Series 09, Unreliable Narrator, ambiguous beginning, artwork, coda fic, meeting at a bar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-04-23
Packaged: 2018-06-03 16:24:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6617719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurgatoryJar/pseuds/PurgatoryJar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They slide closer and closer as the hours pass and they talk, about everything and nothing at all, brushing their elbows and thighs together, sharing a bottle of whiskey the bartender surrendered at some point in the night with a shake of her head, giving up on flirting with Dean.</p>
<p>She’s hot, sure, but Dean’s too distracted by the sliver of collarbone the man has left visible when he popped open a button on his white shirt - and the intense need to lick his way up - to notice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Arsonist's Lullaby

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to thank my lovely beta Pipa because they gave me the shove I needed (right out of the closet) and also because they turned this frog of a story into a prince so effortlessly it's almost scary, and destieldrabblesdaily for holding my hand while I mused over mature scenes and the perks of Cas on his knees. I love you both!

 

“Just passing through,” Dean says tiredly, nodding in thanks to the bartender when she slides another beer towards him. He knocks back almost half of it before he finds enough balls to study the profile of the man to his left again. 

“Yeah,” the guy says, not lifting his eyes to Dean, choosing instead to look into his glass of whiskey like he’s gonna find all the answers at the bottom of it if only he can stare it into submission. Dean’s been there, done that, but he doesn’t bother telling the guy it doesn’t work. He’s sure he knows that already. 

“Staying the night?” the man inquires, signaling the bartender for another shot. He’s been here a while: there are already four empty glasses in a neat line in front of him, leaving a wet trail behind, moisture gleaming in the low light of the bar. The tips of his long fingers are wet. 

Hell, he was already here when Dean first arrived, shoulders hunched and 3 glasses of whiskey already under his belt, sitting alone at the counter, staring off into the distance. 

“Hey,” Dean had said, finding somehow the courage. He’d received a smile in return, kinda lopsided and sad, like the man couldn’t summon up enough energy to lift both sides of his - alarmingly distracting - mouth. They hadn’t said anything more to each other at first, simply sitting with their elbows almost touching, nursing their own drinks separately, until the bartender had slid the first shot of whiskey in front of Dean, “From your friend here.” 

“Looks like you need it,” the man had added to that, and Dean had looked up in time to see him tilt his head, a question clearly written on his features.  

“Yeah,” Dean had croaked, finally turning towards him fully to study the unruly dark hair, the sharp angle of his stubbled jaw, the way his fingers curled around the glass like he was cradling a baby bird in his hand. “Yeah, man, I drove all night. I  _ definitely  _ need it.”

The conversation flows easier after that and they slide closer and closer as the hours pass and they chat about everything and nothing at all, brushing their elbows and thighs together, sharing a bottle of whiskey the bartender surrendered at some point in the night with a shake of her head, giving up on flirting with Dean. 

She’s hot, sure, but Dean’s too distracted by the sliver of collarbone the man has left visible when he popped open a button on his white shirt - and the intense need to lick his way up - to notice.  

*

It’s well past 2 a.m. when they stumble outside, still quietly talking, head bent together. Castiel’s gesticulating wildly, telling him about clients and work and something about a slushie machine that refused to obey. He’s a bit drunk, but so is Dean. He’s also fucking beautiful like this, windblown and bright-eyed and with a hint of red on his cheeks and nose, and Dean hopes it’s not only the alcohol talking here. They walk side by side, sliding their shoulders together, and the contact makes Dean crazy, leaving goosebumps in its wake. 

Castiel crosses his arms and curls his fingers in as he tries to shield himself from the chilling april air. He’s on his way to shivering, clad only in his white shirt and a bright blue vest, and there are holes in his jeans. It’s spring, but it’s night and not warm enough yet to be outside without at least a jacket. 

“No coat?” Dean asks, not sure if he wants to know the reply to that or not. “It gets pretty cold at night in Idaho,” he adds, when Castiel glances up at him from under his eyelashes. God, he sounds like the beginning of a bad porno. Lame line it is then. “Or so I’ve heard.”

Castiel shrugs as he tries - and fails - to hide the tremor in his hands and voice. “I don’t have mine anymore.” 

He looks like he’s about to add something else, and Dean waits for it, but it never comes. 

The next time Castiel brushes closer, Dean wraps an arm around his shoulder and presses him into his side. He blames the cold for the redness on his cheeks when chapped lips drag almost accidentally along the underside of his jaw and a deep voice rumbles against his cheek. 

“Come back with me.”

*

“Do you want something else to drink? I have coffee,” Castiel offers as he steps inside the motel room, dropping the keys  on the table absentmindedly. Dean looks around, half searching for all the escape routes out of habit, half genuinely examining the place. He tries not to stare as Castiel loses the vest, or as he rolls up the sleeves of his shirt at his elbows. He fails. 

Castiel leans back against the kitchenette counter, hands on his hips, waiting. The room looks exactly like every other Dean’s ever stayed in, with its striped walls and bathroom door and blue comforter on the bed.  _ This  _ looks exactly like any other hook up Dean’s ever had, except for where it doesn’t. But Dean’s not thinking about this. He’s not.

He shakes his head and the other man nods, looking down at his feet.

For a moment Dean’s worried he read this all wrong, even though Castiel  _ did  _ drag him out of the Impala and across the parking lot all the way to the door after Dean gave him a lift here, but what if. What if. 

He’s about to open his mouth to apologize, say something,  _ anything _ , but then he notices it: there, right at the corner of Castiel’s full mouth, there’s a smile. 

After that, it’s embarrassingly easy to take a step towards him, and then another, and hell if it doesn’t feel like an eternity even though the distance between them is a little less than a couple of feet.

Castiel’s eyes never leave his, and yeah, the guy has a staring problem, but Dean doesn’t really care as the tip of his boots come into contact with the other man’s. Castiel looks down again, almost as if he’s fascinated by the movement of his hand as he presses it to Dean’s chest, palm open until his fingers curl to grasp at his shirt. 

Dean’s got his hands on him too, fingers slipping past his exposed throat, through the short hair at the nape of his neck, fumbling as Castiel lets out a mewling sound like he’s dying.  _ Jesus.  _

“Are you going to kiss me,” Castiel murmurs, breathless, at the corner of his mouth, “anytime this century?” 

Dean laughs. He pushes his forehead against the other man’s, closes his eyes, and shivers his way through the kiss. 

It doesn’t look like Castiel’s going to give up control, though, because he lets him press and bite and drag at his bottom lip for all of ten seconds before he’s flipping their positions so that Dean’s the one with his back to the kitchen counter. 

Then he falls to his knees. 

_ Fuck _ .

“Yes,” Castiel murmurs, lips burning hot against Dean’s shirt, thumbs digging into his hips as he pushes the fabric up with his nose to mouth at Dean’s stomach, and Dean realizes he probably spoke out loud. 

“You’re a sassy bastard,” he comments, trying to sound less choked. He gives up and drops his hands to Castiel’s head, petting his hair back into submission just to distract himself while the other man slides his mouth lower, following the trail of hair all the way to the waistband of his jeans. 

“Fuck,” he says again, “I need you so much,” and Castiel hums, hides a half choked laugh in the space where his hip and thigh meet, dragging his impossibly warm mouth over the fabric. It’s making Dean crazy, so much that he can’t seem to stay still, moving his fingers from carding through Castiel’s hair to his jaw to his shoulder and back up, twitching his hips toward him in a silent plea for anything as long as it’s  _ more _ .

“What do you want, Dean?” Castiel asks, nosing at the bulge in his pants, looking up innocently from the floor, like he’s asked him the same question a million times, and - 

Dean wants his pants gone, and he wants Castiel naked, and he doesn’t give a fuck if they make it to the bed or if Castiel just pushes him up on the counter and rubs up against him right there until they both come, as long as he  _ does _ something and stops teasing.

*

They make it to the bed for round two. 

*

Castiel looks almost fragile when he sleeps, which is funny because he’s almost six feet tall, and he’s strong, and he fucked Dean into the mattress yesterday night like it was going out of fashion. 

But now he’s balled up under the blanket, his hands are hidden under the pillow and he’s curling in on himself like he’s trying to chase the warmth Dean took away when he got out of bed. He looks fragile and peaceful, and Dean’s breathless and he can’t look away. 

A real life angel. The thought makes him snort.

He can almost picture the massive wings, curling around Castiel, long feathers draped over Dean’s shoulder, soft and warm. 

Dean’s already half dressed, back in his boxers and undershirt, and he should really go back to the kitchen area to find the rest of his clothes. He should get dressed and slip out of the room and never come back, for both of their sakes, instead of just sitting here, watching Castiel sleep. He knows that, he just -  

_ No. _

He’s going. 

But then again, Cas has always been good at putting a dent in other people’s plans. 

“Dean?” he slurs, blinking a couple of times before opening his eyes, hand slipping from under his head and toward him, catching at the back of his shirt.

Dean stops pretending.

The truth is, he’s tired of staying away from Cas until he misses him so much he has to see him even if it puts both of them and Sam in danger. He’s tired of blowing into whatever town Cas is in and track him down like he’s hunting a creature. He’s tired of telling himself that it doesn’t mean anything, to treat it like any other of his one night stands, just so that he can hold Cas close one more night. Hell, he’s been pretending for so long he can’t remember how he used to be around Cas where things were - easier. 

He closes his eyes, but it’s not like he can’t see him burned on his eyelids, not like he hasn’t seen him all the other times before this one. Disheveled, breakable and so human now, with his messy hair escaping into the pillow and the creases of the sheets printed into his skin and a fucking hickey on his fucking collarbone, and the way he looks at Dean like he loves him, like he thinks Dean even remotely deserves him. Fuck. 

When he opens his eyes, Castiel’s sitting up, gazing at him calmly, like this is just a morning like any other and Dean’s just going to get pancakes and coffee and not running away back to the Bunker with a possessed brother and a depressed teenage prophet like a fucking coward. 

Like Dean didn’t throw Castiel out, didn’t put him on the streets, like he doesn’t come back every time he can’t stay away before he inevitably leaves the morning after like a - 

Fuck. 

“You were going to leave without saying anything,” Castiel says, and it’s definitely not a question. “Again.” 

_ Even though you said you needed me, that I was family _ is left unsaid, but Dean hears it loud and clear. 

He thinks that maybe Cas wants to ask why, demand to know  _ what the fuck  _ is wrong with Dean, to which Dean could reply with a list in alphabetical order. Or maybe he just wants to get the chance to tell him not to come back - as if Dean could stay away, fuck - or demand how to turn off the GPS on his phone so that Dean can’t find him like he did yesterday, and -

But no, Castiel just shakes his head, proves that he’s always one step and a half ahead of Dean and not as emotionally constipated, and says, “I was going to pretend to be asleep for a while longer, but I really need to urinate.”

And Dean can’t really help it anymore. He stares, and he smiles, and then he starts laughing until he has no more air in his lungs and he has to start taking heaving breaths, at which point he realizes he’s sobbing and that Castiel has crawled all the way over to cradle him into his arms like he wants to protect him, and comfort him, and Dean doesn’t deserve him and never will, fuck, and he can’t do this.  

“I can’t,” he rasps out loud, fighting to breathe. Cas starts to release him, probably thinking that Dean wants space, but Dean grips his shoulder, his neck, and crashes their mouths together. “I can’t do this anymore,  _ fuck _ , okay? I’m done with lying to myself and pretending this is just some random hookup with a stranger, that it doesn’t mean anything, you don’t deserve all this  _ bullshit _ .” 

Castiel makes a protesting sound, but Dean holds their foreheads together, tries to look at him anyway. 

“I’m done,” he repeats as he kisses Castiel’s cheek, his jaw, the corner of his mouth. “with lying to you, with keeping you away, with all of it. I’m not going to watch you stay here while I run away like a fucking coward, I can’t do it anymore, Cas.” 

He realizes that it’s the first time he said Cas’s name at all since they met yesterday and he just wants to slap himself.  

“Okay,” Cas murmurs, gripping his shoulder and fisting a hand in his hair, holding on. “Okay.”

He’ll tell him about Sam, and Ezekiel, eventually, and they’ll make something up like they always do. But, for the moment, he lets Cas kiss his forehead, and he holds on tight. 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I really, really wanted to write a piece to go with the drawing. I swear I meant for it to be fluff, but then I got hit with the Angst Gods and this happened. *shrughs*  
> Also the title was taken from Hozier's song! 
> 
> You can find me at purgatoryjar.tumblr.com!


End file.
